


Rebound Man

by Toastybluetwo



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-05
Updated: 2011-10-05
Packaged: 2017-10-24 07:59:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/260942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toastybluetwo/pseuds/Toastybluetwo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neither are who either wanted. Varric/Anders.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rebound Man

It was one of those things that made sense at the moment, that made sense when one stepped back and looked at the situation, the day, or the hour. The scene was a private one, and a good thing, too, because Varric wasn’t sure that he would ever be able to speak out loud about what was happening here, now, in his room at the Hanged Man.

The rooms at the Hanged Man were not luxurious. Most of them weren’t even private. Yet, as a continued, dedicated customer, Varric had been allowed some privileges. He rented a room. His rent was always on time. He was never too loud, his guests were usually quiet and tended to bring additional business.

The chair was his. It was an import; perhaps Orlesian from the scrollwork upon the wood and the embroidery so fine that it had a sheen upon it that seemed to glimmer in firelight like fine silk. The chair was large and comfortable and meant for relaxing. It had a matching footstool, but that had been moved aside, forgotten, left by the fire like remnants of another life, of other loves and desires that had both betrayed and transgressed and now lay, abandoned.

Varric drew a sharp breath and smelled the environment as a whole, as a composition of so many instruments all at once. The distant yet familiar song of cheap barley and hops, with a strain of sour grapes, seemed a mere memory not allowed in his chambers. Not tonight. Only the comforting refrain of sage and burning firewood and cinnamon incense weaved their way through the air and into his nose, creating an atmosphere of home and relaxation.

He was stone sober. He could not blame anything that happened that night on drink, good or bad, expensive or cheap, imported or local. This had been his choice, and come what might, he put thoughts out of his head about the consequences.

Damn the consequences. Damn a fading scene, floating through his mind like a tapestry caught on an unseen breeze, of green eyes, tilted slightly, lined with colored powder and kohl. Damn the hips that once whispered as they swished, as they danced through life as a whole, and ceased to seize any further days.

Damn Hawke and Fenris, and every time that Anders stood there, jaw slightly gaping, watching their hands brush almost accidentally then part. Anders’ desperation hung in the air and mixed with the smell of sage that hung onto his clothes. It was part of his cologne, the jealousy, his palatable pining for Hawke all of these years.

Varric could feel that pining even now, in the heat that consumed him, started in his legs, which were still half-covered in trousers and boots. Anders hadn’t bothered to remove his coat. This made this act feel somewhat less real, less authentic, less intimate. They could be running around the Wounded Coast now, their hearts pounding as their eyes darted into the shadows of rocks, ruins, imported furniture, and among too-thin wooden walls. Varric would feel Bianca in his hands, an arrow within her, seeking release, needing release, wanting to release her into anyone that deserved to fall, needed to fall, perhaps wanted it.

He was tempted to look down at his lap, but was afraid that Anders would be staring back at him.

The release. It was too easy and too quiet. No satisfying click of a trigger, no scrape of wood upon wood. Only a sigh escaped Varric’s parted lips, followed by a soft hum and an even softer wet noise of something solid, something soaked in fluid sliding away from more wetness and out into the world.

In Varric’s fuzzy mind, one thought rose to the top: I’m a rebound man. A laugh strangled in his throat.

“Are you alright?”

To look down at Anders was instinct. It was polite to look at someone who was speaking to you, regardless of the fact that this person’s face might be inches from your limp, still-wet cock. The sight caused Varric’s lips to tighten. He wasn’t sure if he was ready for the implications or the consequences.

Anders was his friend. This definitely changed the terms of that association.

Varric said the first thing that came to mind: “I just want to warn you, I’m complete shit at pillow talk.”

A smile touched Anders’ lips. “Good thing that we’re not in bed yet.”

‘Yet’. Varric caught the word and the myriad of implications that came with it. He wasn’t sure if he was ready for that. He liked sleeping alone. He liked sprawling out, arms and legs splayed, pillows wherever they fell, perhaps under his arms or rolled up behind his knees. His bed was a refuge and a nest all at once.

“You…uh…want to go get some air instead?” Perhaps he would accidentally, purposefully, lead Anders back to Darktown. Perhaps they would run into some thugs on the way, and shed some blood with the promise of the few coins from the pockets of dead men.

It was better than having Anders spend the night. To have someone spend the night was too intimate. It was too big of a step.

“Alright.” Rocking back on his heels, Anders stood up. He paused, reached up, wiped away a small white smudge on one corner of his mouth with his thumb, then licked his fingers. He smiled. “Nice night for it.”


End file.
